


Weihnachtsbaum

by delle



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:28:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delle/pseuds/delle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Abbie gives a history lesson and Ichabod learns about Christmas trees.    2,200 words</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weihnachtsbaum

**Author's Note:**

> With deepest thanks to King Touchy for the cheerleading and hand-holding and Nestra for the beta!

She arrived at the cabin, arms laden with a week’s worth of groceries for Crane. He greeted her at the door – he had once informed her he could hear the car approach from the turnoff of the road – and immediately took the bags from her. 

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying them to the counter.”

“Of course you are,” he said, in that dry tone that flawlessly expressed his disbelief. “You’re already going to the trouble of purchasing these stores for me; the least I can do is not make you carry them as well.”

She didn’t argue. He was struggling, she knew, to wrap his mind around the differences of women’s standing in his society and hers, always trying to walk the line between his innate courtesy and insulting her. She might privately roll her eyes at him occasionally, but Abbie could give him credit for trying.

“So, what have you been doing with yourself while I was at the store?” She crossed the room to where his chair sat, comfortably close to the fire. There was a book on the table, next to the kerosene lamp, with his place neatly marked. She found it endlessly amusing that although the cabin was electrified, he preferred not to use it. At least she had convinced him to use kerosene instead of candles. She would take her small victories when she could.

“I have been indulging myself in that novel of Mr. Dickens’ that you were so kind to procure for me,” he answered, his back to her as he put away the food. His hair was down today, curling to his shoulders; a small way, she knew, of declaring himself ‘off duty’ for the day. He stowed away the eggs, milk and two packets of hamburger meat – he had happily accepted the innovation of refrigeration but obstinately refused to use the freezer, declaring the notion of freezing one’s food to be an abomination. 

“Yeah? What do you think of Scrooge?”

Crane paused, considering. “You accused me recently of being a scrooge. I fail to see any similarity in my behaviors and Mr. Scrooge’s.”

“Bah, humbug.” Abbie flopped into Crane’s chair.

“What, precisely, is this?” Crane turned, a six-pack of beer in his hand.

“Beer, Crane. It’s the weekend, we can share a brew or two.”

“I know what beer is,” Crane said peevishly. “I must inform you your so-called beer tastes like horse piss.”

“And you know what horse piss tastes like?”

He sneered down his long nose at her. “I have known some desperate times, _Lieutenant_ , but none that desperate. Would you prefer it if I stated your beer leaves much to be desired?”

“Give that one a try, Crane.” She nodded at the bottles in his hand. “It’s a micro-brew. From Portland, Oregon, no less.”

“Chickens, Miss Mills, chickens and clucking. What is a micro… _brew_ , and what,“ he bit each word off, as if was distasteful as he glanced at the bottle, “is an I. P. A.? Is it imperative that I know where a place called Oregon is?”

She waved a hand. “Never mind, just give it a try.”

To her surprise, he didn’t continue to argue. A minute later, he was standing beside her, offering a bottle, which she took and sipped gratefully. Crane collapsed on the couch, the heels of his boots resting on the wooden armrests, and took a long pull on his own bottle. His eyes lit up with pleasure.

“That’s a definite improvement over whatever it was Detective Morales shared with us last week.”

“Yeah, well, he has lousy taste.”

“In beer, perhaps.” Crane tipped his bottle in salute to her.

Abbie waved it off, took another long drink. “So you asked about - how did you phrase it – dragging in some lumber to celebrate Christmas.”

“I did, indeed. Are you going to enlighten me, Miss Mills?”

“I thought I’d tell you a little of the background, yeah. You got something better to do tonight, Crane?”

“Absolutely not. There’s nothing I’d rather do than spend an evening listening to you tell me a story.”

She looked at him suspiciously, but his eyes were clear of sarcasm.

“I read on a webpage, this was something you guys did back in your time. Spend the evening telling stories.”

“And drinking. Telling stories and drinking, yes. A proper way to spend a cold, dark night.”

“You making fun of me, Crane?”

He put his right hand on his heart, the gesture only a little diminished by the beer bottle in his grip. “Perish the thought.”

“OK, then. So, when you ‘died’,” she made air quotes in the air, “it was 1781, right? George the Third was king?”

He had given her a side-eye at her hand motions, but nodded. “That is correct.”

“So, George started behaving strangely. Seizures, crazy-ass irrationality. It got so bad that he was declared incompetent and his son was declared Prince Regent.”

“The Prince of Wales? I can’t imagine that went well.”

“Did you know him too?”

Crane gave her a supercilious glance. “Hardly. But, as young as he was, he had a reputation for wild living.”

“From what I’ve read, ‘wild living’ is being generous. The man liked to party. He eventually hooked up with a Catholic, twice-widowed woman and married her.”

Crane choked on his mouthful of beer. “Miss Mills, your ‘innarnet’ has obviously failed you. There are – there were – laws prohibiting the marriage of members of the immediate Royal family to followers of the Roman Catholic faith. In any case, the Prince of Wales cannot – pardon, could not – marry without the King’s permission.”

“Oh, I know it. But he did – or, rather, they think he did. It’s all been hushed up. But historians are pretty sure that he married a Mrs. Fitzherbert and had a couple of kids with her. Then he had to get married to somebody royal, someone appropriate, because he was in debt and Papa George wouldn’t give him any more money unless the Prince married someone the King picked.”

“So he was a bigamist?” Throwing his head back, Crane finished his beer in one long gulp. “Not quite horse-piss, and I’m definitely going to need more if this story is going to continue in this fashion.” He boosted his lanky body off the couch and pulled two more bottles out of the fridge. He handed her one with a slight bow. “Pray, continue. I am riveted.”

She glanced at him. It was hard to tell when he was being sarcastic. “Where did I leave off? Oh, yeah; so the Prince left Maybe-Wife Number One and married his official wife. Who he hated.”

“Who did he marry?”

She shrugged. “I don’t remember – a cousin, I think.”

“Well.” His tone said ‘that explains it all’.

“So they _really_ hated each other. Managed to have one kid – a girl – and then lived the rest of their lives separately. He had a bunch of illegitimate children and apparently she had a string of lovers. Nice folks.”

“When I left England,” Crane’s eyes were focused on the wall over her shoulder, lost in memory, “the Prince of Wales was already creating quite a reputation for himself. A young man of 16, 17 and already known for his gluttony. He was not a man to introduce to a virtuous woman.”

“Well,” she sharpened her voice and it succeeded, his eyes returned to hers, focused again on the present, “in any case they had exactly one legitimate child, a girl. Who had the bad luck to die in childbirth.”

“An unfortunate and fairly commonplace occurrence.” 

“Yeah, I read that too. Reason number 5,280 why I’d rather live in my time than in yours. So George – gah, so many Georges! – so THIS George reigned as Regent for his dad, George III and then as George IV. And when he died, his daughter had already died, so the crown went to his brother William. Who had only two daughters and they both died as babies.”

“Another unfortunate and common experience.”

Abbie glanced at him, but his attention was on her, not lost in memories of his unknown son. “So when William kicked the bucket –“

“Bucket? How does a bucket factor into this?”

“Means he died. He was no more. He had passed this mortal coil and crossed to the great beyond.” What was she thinking, obviously Crane did not understand a Monty Python reference. “Anyway, so George III had all these kids, but the next generation of princes were gestationally challenged. No male heirs. So when William died, the crown passed to his niece, Victoria.”

Crane blinked. “A queen. Indeed.”

“Indeed,” she mocked his tone. “So now we’re up to the mid-1800s, yeah? Victoria married some dude name Albert with a ridiculously long last name. But he was German – wait, no. Not German, Bavarian. You guys didn’t really have a Germany as we know it.”

“Germany? There were countries that spoke German – Austria, Bavaria, Prussia, Saxony, Hesse...”

“Hessian” hung unspoken and heavy in the air.

“Right.” She spoke briskly, to get past the moment. “Albert of the ridiculously long last name brought some German – Bavarian – traditions with him. One of which was the Christmas tree. It was interesting, reading about them. She was the Queen, in her own right, and his title was “Prince Consort”. Not King. Albert had a tough time, trying to find his place. There was a great quote from him, about being only the husband, not the Head of the House.” Crane, wisely, did not respond but merely grunted. “He did all right, though. He was the president of a few societies, managed the kids’ educations - they had nine kids and they all made it to adulthood! - cleaned up the Royal finances a bunch. Victoria, though, she was a real trend-setter. Whatever she did, the rest of England wanted to do too. And, here in America, we totally followed England’s lead.”

“Odd. After fighting a war to set themselves apart?” Crane had been idly stroking his beard as he listened raptly to her convoluted story. “Why would Americans want to mimic English fashion?”

Abbie shrugged. “It had been nearly 100 years after the Revolution? I have no idea. So, Christmas trees. There was a sketch of Victoria and Albert and several of their kids standing around their tree. Some English magazine printed it and then it was reprinted here in the States a year or two later. Seems to have started the craze for Christmas trees. Everyone wanted to be like the Queen.” Abbie shrugged again, swallowed more of her beer. “She started the tradition of white wedding dresses too, Victoria. And mourning. She was hell on mourning.”

Crane looked dumbfounded. “I cannot understand how your mind skips around.”

“Trust me, when you know more about Victoria, it’ll all make sense. But that’s a story for another night.” She rose and set her empty beer bottle on the counter, next to the previous pair. “I’ll be back in a second. You remember what I told you about recycling, right? Put all these bottles in a bag and give them back to me, I’ll put them out with my garbage.” Behind her, she could hear him grumbling about modern complications as she walked out the door.

She dug into the back seat of the car, grabbed the small gift she had secreted there. She felt like an idiot as she re-approached the door, but one look at Crane’s incredulous face took her embarrassment away.

“A tree? You brought me a tree?”

“Now that you know more about the history of Christmas trees, I thought you should have your own.” Marching past him, she set the potted tree on the counter. She rummaged around to find the end of the string of lights she had carefully added, and plugged it into one of the few outlets in the cabin. 

Crane reached out and stroked one glowing branch. “Lieutenant, I’m touched.”

Abbie shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s a real tree, Crane, so be sure to unplug it when you’re not home or when you go to bed.”

“Real tree? As opposed to a not-real tree?”

“Artificial, yeah.” She had to laugh at his horrified look. “Oh, Crane, I’m going to have to take you to the mall one of these days. You won’t believe some of the ugly-ass Christmas trees out there. But don’t forget to unplug it, yeah?”

He sketched a half-bow to her. “I am, as always, obedient to your commands, Lieutenant.”

“Ha. That will be the day.” She grabbed her coat and went to put it on, only to find Crane snatching it from her hands and holding it out courteously. She ‘tsk’d’ and shook her head, but allowed him to assist her. 

“Jenny’s expecting us for dinner tomorrow,” she warned him. “I don’t think we have any options but to show up.”

“I would not dream of disappointing Miss Jenny,” Crane assured her. 

Abbie zippered up her coat, glanced over at the little Christmas tree and then at Crane. “Merry Christmas, Crane,” she said softly.

He gave her a full courtly bow, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Merry Christmas, Abbie.”


End file.
